FUBAR
by Eliot Rosewater
Summary: The headlines said Captain America saved nearly 400 lives, but Steve Rogers went behind enemy lines looking for only one man. (Or 'Thirty miles is a long way for a bunch of POWs to walk.')
1. Chapter 1

**Former U.S. president James Buchanan said, "The test of leadership is not to put greatness into humanity, but to elicit it, for the greatness is already there."**

* * *

By the time Steve made it back to the ground—Bucky stumbling around as if drunk behind him—nearly all of the enemy soldiers had been neutralized. Steve squinted into the darkness and tried to gauge just how many people there were. His stomach clenched a little when he looked out over the sea of men. The fire burning in the ruined factory illuminated the stomping grounds all of the former prisoners were gathered in. Most of the men were scavenging weapons and seizing the armored vehicles. But Steve also noticed that a lot of them were hobbling around in less-than-great shape. That reminded him.

"Bucky," he said as he turned around.

Before the word ever left Steve's lips, there was another voice shouting, "Jimmy!"

Steve turned back to face the sea of men. A group was approaching. They were all smiles and sweat and ashes and happy. The voice belonged to a man with a bowler hat and a mustache reminiscent of a walrus. Steve idly wondered why the hat hadn't been confiscated from him. Steve may have been Captain America: Touring Chorus Girl for the past several months, but he knew that bowler hats were not standard issue.

The man who had spoken—Mustache, Steve unimaginatively named him—led a group of four others up to Bucky—_Jimmy?_—and hugged him. The other four were laughing and tossing seemingly fond insults around. The five of them wrapped up Bucky in hugs and passed him among themselves like they might share a cigarette. Steve stared.

"We thought you were dead, Yank," a man with a British accent said.

"Aw, fuck, nothin' the lousy Krauts can dish out could ever take out our Jimmy!" Mustache said as he clapped a hand on Bucky's shoulder. The force of it sent the sergeant staggering forward a half step.

"I told you," Bucky said in a voice that sounded a little hoarse, a little congested, and a lot wrong in Steve's ears, "no one calls me Jimmy."

"Yeah, well, I just did."

"Oi, Captain America," the British one said. "What now?"

At the words, most of the men in the sea before him stilled and turned to listen. How long were they kept here? Not long enough to forget their training. They wanted orders. They wanted to move again. Steve blinked and pulled his helmet off.

_What now?_

The words were already on his tongue. "The front is thirty miles from here. Gather all the weapons and rations you can. If any of the tanks are operational, and if anyone knows how to drive one, take it. See if you can find any medical supplies to tend to the wounded. If there are any medics here, now would be a good time to come forward. If any of the other guys are still alive, round 'em up; we'll take them back as prisoners."

The men moved to carry out the orders. The group around Bucky patted him on the shoulder affectionately before going to root out their preferred weapons in the wreckage of the factory. Steve watched the once-POWs move around each other. There was some laughing, some smiles. Fighting back seemed to have brought life back into their faces. It made Steve smile but also made a bitter taste rise in the back of this throat. What must have happened to make these men revel in such violent revenge? What had happened to them?

Steve was about to ask Bucky just that when he realized that his closest friend was walking away from him. "Whoa," Steve said while hooking an arm around Bucky's chest and pushing him back to his place. There was a tiny, euphoric feeling in Steve's chest when he realized that he could actually push Bucky now but it died just as quickly as it came. Steve frowned at the way Bucky jerked away and winced at Steve's touch. "Where do you think you're going?"

"You gave an order," Bucky said. He shrugged. "Captain."

"I didn't mean you."

Confusion drew on Bucky's face. "Why not?"

"Look at you," said Steve. "You can hardly stand. Just…sit down and—just sit down."

"Prefer to stand."

_Still stubborn as a mule_, Steve thought.

But even as Bucky said the words, he was curling in on himself as if his spine couldn't support the weight of him any longer. Steve put a hand out to stop his friend from taking a slow-motion nosedive into the mud. He could feel Bucky's breath and thought it seemed…forced? Unnatural? Labored? _Not right._

"God, Buck, what happened to you?"

"I joined the army."

Steve's jaw clenched. "That's not funny."

"Who's laughing?"

With a firm grip on his friend's shoulders, Steve held Bucky out at arm's length and took a good, hard look at him. Even with only the flickering light of the fire, Steve could see the pallor under the grime on Bucky's face. Steve might have been an optimist, but he wasn't naïve. Whatever had been done to his friends hadn't been good. Torture _at least_. He couldn't even begin to fathom what sort of information HYDRA would want from Bucky—because that's what Steve must have stumbled in on, right? That was an interrogation, wasn't it? It had to have been. There was no other reason for Bucky to be repeating his name, rank, and serial number like that.

Steve thought about the scene again, thought about finding Bucky quite literally dazed and confused, strapped to a table. He let himself consider all the possibilities. That _could_ have been an interrogation room. But it would have been a really stupid place to interrogate an enemy soldier given that a map displaying the positions of several HYDRA plants hung on the wall in plain sight. No, if Steve was honest with himself then he'd have to admit that the room looked far more like a laboratory in the midst of an experiment than an interrupted interrogation.

Steve's stomach curdled at the thought. Righteous anger flooded his veins and burned out the horror. The pure _wrongness_ of it was enough to make Steve want to rebuild the factory only so he could raze it again. How dare they treat Bucky, his friend—_his_ friend—like a lab rat? For the first time, Steve thought that he was actually and truly grateful for the serum and Operation: Rebirth. Now he had the means to fight back, to protect. _Now_ Steve had the ability to start making up for all of the punches Bucky took and all of the bullies Bucky fought off in Steve's name over the years.

Steve had to remind himself that everything in his head was speculation. Bucky hadn't said anything about what had happened—how could he? There hadn't been any time. Steve's mind went to the thirty miles that lay between here and the front. There would be plenty of time to talk while they walked (_could Bucky walk that far?_).

Bucky interrupted Steve's thoughts by trying to shrug out of the captain's grip. "I'm okay. You can let go."

Steve's hands gripped tighter without conscious thought.

"That hurts."

That made Steve's hands drop in an instant. Bucky stepped back out of Steve's arm's reach and clamped a protective hand over a tear in his sweater where Steve's hand had been gripped tightly a moment ago. Steve watched Bucky rub the hurt from his left shoulder. He was so mesmerized by the action that it took the captain a moment to realize his friend was speaking.

". . . go find a rifle and—"

"Bucky," Steve said, cutting him off. "Please. Just sit."

"Steve, I can at least find myself a weapon. I'm not going to keel over an—"

"That's an order, Sergeant."

Steve hated to pull rank, and he hated the look that crossed Bucky's face when he realized that Steve had just done it. Nevertheless, Bucky's body reacted obediently to the order even though it was clear Bucky wished it hadn't. He sat on an overturned barrel though he looked like he didn't know why he was doing it. The two of them ran a hand through their hair at the same time. Bucky sighed and looked at Steve with bleary eyes.

"Are you _actually_ a captain?"

Steve shrugged.

Bucky stared at the helmet hanging in Steve's hand. "It's against regulation to take your helmet off in a combat zone."

That made Steve smile. It reminded him of the old days before the war. The words reminded Steve of all the times Bucky tried to nonchalantly tell him that he was being stupid and was doing something that was bound to make Steve sick or bleed or both. Bucky had always been protective. Steve reckoned it had something to do with him being the oldest in his family, but he knew that wasn't quite right. Bucky _was_ protective of his little sisters, but he was protective of pretty much _everything_ that he thought was worth it. It was part of the reason he'd enlisted, Steve knew. Bucky was protective of Steve in particular because, as Bucky always said, Steve was "too stupid to protect himself." Steve had once accused him of being a mother hen. Bucky had held him in a headlock until Steve cried uncle.

That Bucky was getting passive-aggressively protective (passive-protective?) now made Steve feel better than he had in months. This, at the very least, was familiar ground. And things had been so horribly new and foreign for so long. Sometimes even the enhanced body that he lived in now didn't feel like his own. Steve hadn't realized how much he'd missed Bucky and his cleverly hidden fussing until now. He didn't need Bucky's protection anymore—not physically, anyway—but it felt _so good_ to have it back.

"Then there are a lot of men in violation of regulation out here, huh? Should I report them?" Steve said.

There were the beginnings of a smile on Bucky's face when he said, "You're a punk, you know that?"

"Someone might have told me once or twice."

Weapons were scavenged easily enough, but there was hardly any food to be found. That made Steve nervous. Most of these men looked like they hadn't had anything substantial in a week. Nearly everyone was sporting some kind of wound or handicap. They were able to salvage one of the armored vehicles—a dinged up and dusty Tiger I—and enough fuel to make it back to the lines and then some. Only four medics came forward, but what they were able to do with the supplies that were found and improvised was astonishing. Steve marveled at their resourcefulness. There were splints and bandages made from debris and the torn clothes of the dead.

God rest their souls.

A group of men collected the bodies of the enemies and tossed them into the raging inferno that was the factory. Apparently, whatever was inside could burn for a long time. Any dead POW was buried. The graves were shallow and admittedly insufficient, but it was all the survivors had the time and strength to do. In the end, there were eight black-clad guards remaining. The tables turned and they were now the prisoners. The former HYDRA guards were used to help dig the graves. For the most part, they did this willingly. If Steve hadn't just rescued his best friend from a fucking laboratory, he might have thought that the former guards were remorseful and as upset by the death that occurred as the POWs.

Using sticks and ash-darkened debris, each of the graves were marked. A corporal approached Steve and gave him a canvas bag, its contents nearly busting out of the drawstring top.

"What's this?" said Steve.

"Their tags. Or whatever they had on them for identification. We tried to collect something from everyone that . . . that didn't make it out. Those are from before. Everyone before you showed up." The corporal put a second handful of thin metal tags in Steve's hand. "Those are from tonight. The escape. Couldn't get all of them. Those gun they have—some guys just fuckin' evaporated."

Steve stared at all the lives in his hands. His stomach rolled and his mind spun. This—_this_—was all that remained of so many lives. The burning factory caught his attention. There were people still in there. HYDRA, yes, but still. Lives. Steve put all the lives he hadn't saved into one of the pockets of his jacket. He looked into the eyes of the corporal. _What was it like for you?_ Steve thought. It was this man that collected all that was left of so many. He lived with this bag of ghosts for what, months? Several weeks at least. The weight of everyone he hadn't been able to save settled on Steve's shoulders. He knew that there was nothing he could have done, rationally, and that there would have been a lot more tags if he hadn't come at all. But that didn't make him feel any better. Steve still wished that he had gotten here sooner. As the commanding officer here, those tags were his responsibilities.

He opened his mouth to tell the corporal that he was sorry but he stopped. The corporal looked Steve in the eye and smiled. He smiled and his eyes were shining.

"Thank you," he said. "Thank you for saving us. We didn't think anyone was coming. We've been here so long. _Thank you_, Captain America."

Steve's throat felt stuck. It was wrong. This man's praise and gratitude . . . He didn't deserve it. Steve said, "You shouldn't thank me."

The corporal had already gone. They were nearly done here and the sun was rising in the east. Steve turned and looked around for Bucky. He was sitting somewhere else (but still sitting, thank God) with a rifle in his lap. One of the men that had been hugging him earlier was sitting beside him with a cigarette in hand. They were sitting on the ground, heedless of the mud, and leaning back against the remnants of a wall. The other man was talking, and Bucky's head was tipped back with eyes closed. Steve approached.

"Hey, the captain," the man beside Bucky said. He reached a hand out. "Gabe Jones."

Steve shook the man's hand. "Steve Rogers."

"Jimmy says he knows you but that you look different," Jones said with a smile. As if he didn't believe a word of it. He took a drag on his cigarette.

"Oh, yeah? What else does Jimmy say?" Steve eyed Bucky with amusement. Bucky had so far refused to open his eyes or acknowledge the new company, but Steve could tell that the sergeant was clenching his jaw to fight a smile.

"Well," said Jones, "he used to tell us all the time 'bout some scrawny kid back home that was his best friend. Never shut up about it really—not until the pneumonia got bad. Anyway, he tells us this kid's name's Steve Rogers, and he's the bravest and stupidest person Jimmy's ever met. You tell me you're Steve Rogers, but you don't look nothin' like the person Jimmy was always yappin' about."

Steve said, "To be fair, the last time Jimmy saw me, I _was_ a scrawny little punk."

"Not so scrawny anymore, are ya?" Jones smiled.

"No, sir."

Bucky mumbled, "Still a punk."

"Sour grapes, I think," said Jones to Steve.

That made the two of them laugh, and Bucky's poker face crumbled.

"We're moving out soon," Steve said. "Think you could put the word out for the men to round up into squads? Then get them to form companies of three squads? Those too wounded can ride on the tank."

"No problem, Cap," Jones said.

"Do you know these men well?" Steve asked.

"I like to think so, sir."

"Then would you split up the prisoners so that there's one man to a squad? I don't want them to be able to plan or attack while we head back. I don't want them to end up with a squad that's going to, you know, want to get a little revenge. Think you can do that?"

"Yes, sir." Gabe Jones put a hand on Bucky's shoulder. He made a sound in the back of his throat and raised his eyebrows at the sergeant. Bucky nodded his head, eyes still closed. This seemed to assuage whatever was in question within Jones, because he said "okay" and got to his feet. Taking a final drag on his cigarette, Jones threw it into the rubble and silently asked Steve to follow him. Steve obliged.

Jones stopped a few yards away from Bucky and said, "You really his best friend?"

"Yes," Steve said. There was a bit of defensiveness in his tone. Almost as if he'd been insulted that Jones had ever doubted the truth of it.

Jones held up his hands innocently. "I just want to be sure. The five of us have been keeping an eye on him the past few hours. Ain't no one ever come back from the isolation ward. Jimmy's a mess, Captain. He kept askin' for a gun and wouldn't shut up about it until Dum Dum finally brought him one. Figure his best friend might want a heads up."

The 'thank you' got caught in Steve's throat so he just nodded his appreciation. He had suspected Bucky wasn't all right, but it was good to know that other people noticed as well. Steve was suddenly very grateful to Jones and the others that had had Bucky's back. Jones saluted Steve and then headed out to spread the word and organize the men into manageable groups.

Steve turned back to where Bucky sat against the wall. When Steve looked at the rifle, he saw it in a new light. All the horrifying possibilities of what went on in that laboratory filled Steve's head. No wonder Bucky wanted to be armed so badly. He wanted a means to protect himself. He wanted to feel safe.

Well, saf_er_.

It didn't take long for them to get moving. The HYDRA prisoners were split up among the companies. There was a squad of men guarding each of the flanks and the rear. Steve himself was in the group running point. All of the wounded riding on the armor of the Tiger I were in the center of the herd of men. Walking wounded moved along around the tank. Everyone else walked in a group around the wounded. Everyone had a weapon (except the prisoners, of course) and, seemingly, a renewed vigor. Even those that limped and flinched as the convoy slowly made its way across the foggy, cold terrain were not downtrodden.

As Steve scouted along in front, he worried. They didn't have enough food for everyone. They didn't have water. Their medical supplies were hobbled together. A lot of these guys would probably get sick without proper medical attention. Hell, they could even die. Infection was foremost in Steve's mind. No one had any penicillin. If they had just that single drug, Steve wouldn't feel so worried. He didn't think he could take having even _one_ more dog tag in his pocket.

Whenever Steve and the men with him encountered enemies, they always went back and told the convoy to adjust their course. He was certain that he didn't want to engage anyone in battle. Most of his men were wounded anyway. He couldn't in good faith risk further injury. Nor could they spare the ammunition. _Everything_ was already in such limited supply. Steve didn't want to waste a single thing.

So they plotted their course around any enemy nests. One of the men, Jacques Dernier, had managed to swipe a map out of the factory before it was completely ruined. On it were marked the heaviest defenses and military strongholds. They would certainly know where _not_ to walk. That left all the little places. And those were the tough ones. But the more Steve was forced to maneuver around any enemies, the longer their road back to safety would stretch. They were already moving so slowly. They couldn't drag this out too much. Not unless they found food and water to replenish this many men. And crates of spare ammunition. Steve cursed the busted transceiver Peggy had given him.

It felt like they had been walking for days when it had only been hours. The sun was gone beyond the trees, and Steve called for the men to stop. They made camp. An _enormous_ camp. There wasn't any food to go around, but there was a stream nearby. Water was collected and distributed. Watch was established. It took a very long time to sort everything out, but it was still relatively fast considering all the people that were in the convoy and how they had never had any training together before now. Steve was sure that there was a higher ranking (real) officer in their midst, but no one ever came forward to claim responsibility for them. It was still Steve in charge.

Steve made long, sweeping circuits around their camp and checked in with the men that stood at each of the established posts. He was too worried about everything to lie down. He felt responsible for these men. They, all of them, deserved to be home, and Steve was going to make damn sure that happened. Besides, he could rest when they were back on their side of the lines. The convoy was moving out at first light. Only thirty miles between the factory and the lines. They should have been back there in mere hours, not more than an entire day.

There was noise suddenly. Steve froze and let his over-sensitive hearing stretch out. He relaxed marginally when he realized it was coming from within the circle of watchers he'd posted. It was friendly, not hostile. Still, the crashing and snapping of foliage sounded urgent. That was not someone wandering around looking for a private latrine.

There was a voice calling, "Captain? Captain America?"

Steve said, "I'm here."

They played this game of Marco Polo until a face appeared out of the shadows. It was another of Bucky's friends, the one from Fresno—Morita, Steve thought was his name.

"Captain," he said, "I think you'd better come."

That could only mean one thing. _Bucky. _

Steve's blood felt more than a little cold in his veins. "What happened?"

He was already following Morita back toward the men. It didn't matter what he said, Steve was going to go check on Bucky anyway. He wanted to kick himself for not doing it sooner.

Morita said, "Some of the men dug a hole and made a fire. You never really said that we couldn't, but we aren't idiots, you know? The guys tried to hide the light by making a pit. Anyway, bunch of us were sitting around it—it's so cold tonight. One of the guys guarding one of the prisoners was there with his charge. I don't know what it was, but Jimmy just jumped him. Beat the living shit out of the guy, Cap."

"How is he?" Steve didn't know who he was asking after.

"Medic said the prisoner should be fine. He took a nasty beating, Cap. We all tried to stop 'im, but Jimmy just wouldn't let the guy go. Knocked out more than a few of the Kraut's teeth when he hit him with the butt of his rifle. When we finally got Jimmy off the guy, he was a fuckin' mess, Cap. He won't calm down, and we don't know what else to do. I figure you might know what to do."

They weren't running, but they were both moving as fast as they could. Steve wished he could take off through the foliage and find Bucky. But it was dark and the ground could trip him and waste valuable time. Besides all that, Steve didn't know where to go. He forced himself to be content with Morita's pace.

They passed only a few other men on their way to find Bucky. Morita led Steve to a relatively private grove of trees. They stop before Jones, Dernier, the Brit, and Mustache—hadn't Jones called him Dum Dum before they left the plant? The Brit pointed to a lump of shadows leaning against the trunk of a tree a few yards away. Steve nodded and cautiously approached. Not until he was a mere foot away did the contours of Bucky's face emerge from the darkness. Steve crouched down beside him.

"Buck," Steve said in a low voice. He was grateful when he heard the others back off and give the two of them privacy. "Bucky?"

Bucky was sitting with his back against the tree trunk. His legs were spread out before him. The barrel of his rifle rested against the side of his face. Bucky pressed his forehead into the metal and kept his eyes closed. Steve stayed absolutely still and listened to the weird way he was breathing. The breath in Steve's lungs nearly froze when he heard it. Bucky was muttering something. Steve frowned and inclined his head closer to be sure he was hearing right.

And there it was: name, rank, serial number. Over and over. This time Steve heard it for what it was. An affirmation. A reminder. A life preserver.

"Bucky," Steve said.

His eyelids opened. They were unfocused. Pupils blown wide. Unseeing and blind. Bucky said, "Who's there?"

Tentatively, Steve reached a hand out and touched Bucky's shoulder. He hoped it worked to ground his friend. "It's me, Buck. It's Steve."

Bucky's eyes looked for the source of Steve's voice but couldn't seem to locate the mass of a man that was sitting right before him. "Steve?"

"Yeah. I'm right here, Buck. I'm right beside you." He tightened his grip to emphasize the truth.

Bucky shook his head back and forth, the barrel of the rifle never losing contact with his forehead. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Steve's brow pinched. "Sorry for what?"

But he just kept shaking his head against the gun. Steve didn't press him for words. He waited until Bucky's eyes finally seemed to come to the present and notice that Steve was indeed sitting right next to him. When they made eye contact, Bucky quickly looked away.

"Talk to me, Bucky."

"Shit, Steve."

"What?"

"Is that guy still alive? I didn't kill him, did I?"

"No," Steve said emphatically. "No, he's not dead. You put him through the ringer, but he's just fine." Not that Steve knew that with any certainty. That's what Morita had said and that was what Steve needed to believe. What he needed Bucky to believe. Steve shook the sergeant by the shoulder under his hand. "Tell me. What happened?"

Bucky let out a sigh. Steve told himself that it was exhaustion and not something else, something deeper that was thick in the sound. His eyes met Bucky's for a fraction of a second before Bucky looked down at his hands picking at the mud and blood staining the butt of his weapon. Steve thought he looked a little embarrassed or ashamed in that moment.

Bucky said, "It was the fire."

"What was the fire?"

"The fire, the way it pops, you know? It sounded like . . ."

"Like what, Buck? Just tell me."

"It sounded like b-_bones_ snapping, and I just—he was _there_ and I just—I'm just—_FUBAR_. It's all—_I'm_ FUBAR, Steve."

"Buck, no." And that was all Steve could think to say for a long time. Then came the soothing, placating words: "I don't know what happened to you back there—and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to—but it's okay. You're overwhelmed. You're exhausted. You haven't eaten or drank anything in a long time. Your friend Jones even mentioned you had pneumonia! You've been just trying to survive for so long. Those instincts aren't just going to shut off. We'll get back to our lines tomorrow; you'll get some sleep and eat some real food. Won't that be a nice change of pace? You know what? I heard that they're relieving your until. You guys will go back to London. You'll have plenty of time to sort yourself out then. You just need to rest up. You're not screwed up, Bucky. It only seems that way because you're so tired. Okay?"

Bucky leaned heavily into the cold barrel of his gun. Steve could feel him leaning just the slightest bit into the hand on his shoulder.

Steve shook Bucky a bit. "Okay?" he repeated.

Spine straightening up, Bucky looked at him steadily. There was amusement on his face that someone who didn't know James Buchanan Barnes might not have been able to spot. "Screwed up?" He laughed genuinely. "It's not SUBAR, Steve," Bucky said. "You're the most innocent man on the planet, you know that?"

Steve shoved him lightly. "Shut up, you jerk."

At dawn, Steve tried to convince Bucky to ride on the tank. They were pretty close to the lines and the reconnaissance team that Steve sent out earlier had reported that there wasn't any resistance on the path they scouted. Steve hadn't left Bucky's side for long all night. He just wasn't comfortable doing it. There was a constant far-away, exhausted look in Bucky's eyes, and Steve didn't think it was wise to leave him like that. He wanted someone around the sergeant at all times. As long as someone was talking to him and keeping him busy, Steve figured Bucky's mind wouldn't have time to wander. Hell, even when they were kids, Bucky was always useless unless he had something to focus on. The trouble the two of them had caused when Bucky's brain was left to idle.

"There is no way I'm riding on the Tiger," Bucky said flatly when Steve suggested it.

"Why not? You wouldn't have to walk! You're wiped, Buck. Just take the ride."

"I don't need it. I can walk a few miles. I walked all day yesterday."

"Which probably wasn't a good idea."

"It was a fine idea. I've walked longer distances out here, Steve. I can manage a few more miles."

Steve said, "This isn't great terrain. You'll get even more ti—"

"The only way you can make me sit on that tank is if you order it, _Captain_."

But Steve wouldn't do that. In the end, he decided that Bucky should be allowed to make his own decisions. When he collapsed due to overwhelming fatigue—_which, let's face it, could be any second now_—Steve would be there when he came to with a big, fat I-told-you-so. So Bucky walked. At Steve's request, he walked right up front. Much to Steve's surprise, Bucky managed to walk step-for-step with him the entire way. Perhaps the army really did instill in its soldiers outstanding stamina. He looked pale and tired the entire time, but Bucky managed all twelve miles at Steve's pace. They made it back to Allied territory and led the way, side-by-side, into Colonel Philips's camp.

_This_, Steve thought as he glanced at Bucky with the remnants of the 107th whooping around them,_ I could get used to._

* * *

**Note:**

**FUBAR is military slang. It's an acronym for 'fucked up beyond all recognition/reason/repair.'**


	2. Chapter 2

It appeared that several of the men were running on fumes for most of the march back to Allied territory. Steve was confident in that assessment because darn near _all_ of them needed some form of medical attention. The aid station was packed to bursting. Any medic in the area was called to the tent to help sort the men out. The field kitchen was put into overdrive trying to accommodate nearly _four hundred_ new, ravenous souls. It was a right mess to sort out. Steve was rounded up by the brass and sequestered for hours as they demanded answers and fully detailed reports of the mission.

Several of HYDRA's weapons had been commandeered and were forwarded—along with the guards-turned-prisoners Steve had captured—to an intelligence base back in London. It didn't take long for word to reach them that all of the prisoners were dead. It had happened while they were being transported and appeared to be due to cyanide poisoning. There was only one prisoner still alive, which happened to be the one Bucky pummeled half to death. (Steve wondered if all those teeth that were knocked out with the butt of a rifle had anything to do with it.) Colonel Philips told Steve after the long hours of talking and recounting that the 107th was being relieved and would spend about a month of rest and recuperation in England.

"And they're going to need it, too," the colonel said. "All these men you brought back with you. We'll have to get them sorted out and accounted for, send the foreigners back to their units." He shook his head at all the work it was sure to take and all the paperwork that was bound to fall on his desk.

When Steve was finally dismissed, the sun had long gone down. It would take a few days to gather all of the necessary transports, but all these men would be boxed up and left to rest up in the relative safety of England in no time at all. Camp was mostly quiet—everyone had gone to sleep. Those that were still awake waved and shouted things that made Steve flush with embarrassment. The praise these men shouted made him uncomfortable. He found himself headed for the aid station before he was even aware his feet were taking him there.

_ Bucky_, his brain reminded him. _You have to check on Bucky_.

Pushing aside the flap of the tent, Steve felt his stomach swoop at the sight of row upon row of exhausted soldiers. They were all sporting some varying degree injury. So much of it. Steve felt guilty seeing how many there were. He may have liberated that labor camp, but there was so much he hadn't been able to fix. Captain America's first real mission felt overwhelmingly like failure.

Steve tried to quietly walk among the endless blocks of wounded men while his eyes searched urgently for Bucky. One of the Red Cross nurses gave Steve a pointed and vaguely harassed look when he accidentally jostled one of the cots that a soldier lay sleeping on.

"Is there somethin' you're lookin' for, Captain?" she said.

Steve balked. "Uh, y-yes, ma'am. I'm looking for a friend of mine. Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes."

He didn't know why he thought that this woman would know where Bucky was. There had been literally hundreds of visitors to the aid station over the past few days. It was unlikely that she would have remembered one in particular. But she had been the one to ask if she could help.

Alas, Steve was proven wrong.

The nurse said, "He ain't here."

"Well, where is he?" All his awkwardness melted in the face of a misplaced Bucky.

"The colonel wanted to talk to him personally. Some of the guys in better shape were giving their reports to the intelligence officers. He looked pretty shabby though. Sgt. Barnes was one of 'em that talked to the colonel. I don't know where he went after that, but he ain't here."

Steve tried not to let his distress show on his face.

The woman said, "It's good, though. We don't have enough space as it is."

Ignoring that, Steve tipped his head toward the nurse in thanks even though she hadn't exactly helped him. He took his leave of the aid station. It made him feel crushing guilt; like that bag full of tags (_full of lives_) was still in his pocket. Steve did the only thing he could think to do, which was to go back to his own tent. He blearily wondered if it was still there or if Colonel Philips had it torn down when Steve went AWOL.

The tent, however, was still in the exact place Steve left it. The garish sight of it wasn't completely masked in the dark of night. It reminded Steve of a cage, of the zoo. He stepped inside and froze. Almost immediately, though, he relaxed again. Bucky was asleep in a pile of canvas, using a pup tent as a blanket, in the space opposite Steve's cot. The captain stood just inside the shelter and watched his friend breathe for a few moments. As quietly as he could, Steve went and sat down beside his sleeping friend.

Steve watched Bucky breathe some more up close. It was reassuring. He had only spent a few hours thinking Bucky was dead, but those had been the worst hours he'd ever experienced.

Steve furrowed his brow. That wasn't right. He hadn't _really_ believed that Bucky was dead, had he? Steve didn't think so. To be perfectly honest, Steve had gone on the not-a-suicide-mission-after-all campaign to make certain that Bucky wasn't alive just as much as he had gone to help all those prisoners. He would never believe Bucky was gone until he saw for himself that the sergeant no longer drew breath. Colonel Philips had told him that Bucky was dead, but Steve didn't think he'd ever actually believed it. For once, the denial hadn't been completely useless.

Eyes tracking the rise and fall of Bucky's chest, Steve was suddenly struck with the notion that Bucky had probably done this same thing for Steve all the time. Steve's lungs had been the most consistently faulty part of his unenhanced body. There were vague, murky memories of a warm presence at his side doing _something_ that eased the taxing on his breathing due to whatever sickness was plaguing his lungs. It didn't take any great detective work to know that that presence had been Bucky. There wasn't ever a time that Bucky hadn't been by Steve's side when he was in the throes of another fever or cough or some other terrible thing. (Pneumonia, tuberculosis, scarlet fever, asthma attack, bronchitis, rheumatic fever . . . the list went on.) Even when Steve was contagious, Bucky never kept his distance. It was stupid and risky of him to do that. Steve always felt guilty when Bucky inevitably caught whatever Steve had, but there was always a part of the captain that was grateful and relieved that Bucky never did leave.

Steve sat sentinel over his friend. Bucky was still wearing that ill-fitting sweater. His identification tags hung loose around his neck, resting in the cavity created by the angle his shoulder made with the pack that was serving as his pillow. Steve couldn't remember if Bucky's collarbones had always been so visible. In the dim light inside the tent, Steve could see the words pressed into the thin metal of his tags.

_BARNES  
JAMES B  
__050-00-6150  
__B POSITIVE  
__CATHOLIC_

Steve knew all of that. It was comforting to see the proof of Bucky's continued existence in front of him. He hadn't wanted to say it out loud, but Steve had been incurably worried about the sergeant. First there were those hours of trying to convince himself that Bucky wasn't dead and that Philips must have had faulty information. Then were was the stress and action of the raid and subsequent liberation of the HYDRA labor camp. Then the walk back. All that time Steve's head had been buzzing with words and worry and plans. But Bucky was just below the surface the whole time. If Steve wasn't careful, his mind would conjure images of his dearest friend strapped to a table, bathed in ghoulish green light. Steve's mind would wander and think of the worst horrors it could.

When Bucky had enlisted—and that felt like more than a lifetime ago—Steve hadn't even considered the possibility that his friend could be killed in action. Bucky was untouchable, above the rest. He would come home without a scratch on him. Not until Steve heard Peggy saying that Bucky's unit had been decimated in Azzano did it occur to Steve that Bucky was purely, entirely human. And humans could be killed and maimed. Humans could be broken.

Bucky made a muted noise that drew Steve's focus back to the present. The sergeant shifted in his sleep as if to ensure himself that he could still move. His face turned away from Steve and pressed into the pack like he was trying to hide. Words tumbled from his lips, half-formed at best. Steve had a sinking feeling that he was hearing name, rank, and serial number being repeated again. Bucky's breath seemed to get caught somewhere high in his chest on every exhale. Steve could hear Bucky's breathing change so that it sounded as if he were trying not to vomit. Seeing his oldest friend gag on nightmares filled Steve with a rage more intense than anything he had ever felt before. Bucky didn't get like _this_. Nothing in the world had the right to reduce James Barnes to _this_; not on Steve's watch. It was _wrong_.

Shaking the sergeant by the shoulder, Steve said, "Bucky. Bucky, wake up."

And he did. Eyelids rolling up as if a great weight had settled on them, Bucky's eyes were glazed as he took in the sight of the captain. Consciousness seemed to be enough to restore normal breathing patterns. He said, "Who?"

"It's Steve." The fact that the question needed to be asked didn't sit right with Steve.

"Steve?"

Now that he was awake, Bucky looked even more tired than he had when they had walked into camp a few days prior. Steve felt a little guilty. "Yeah. It's me."

A hand attempted to wipe away the heaviness from Bucky's face. It didn't appear to work if the pallor of his skin and the shadows ringing his eyes were any indication. "The army. Right. Don't think I'll be getting used to that."

"Used to what?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Like this." Bucky gestured to Steve's much-changed appearance. "Different."

Steve nodded. "That's for sure."

Bucky's head dropped back down to the pack; his neck too tired to support the weight of it any longer. He kept his dulled eyes opened and focused on Steve. "I should be going, huh?"

Steve squawked, "What?"

"'min your tent. I should get back to my unit. Dig in."

Steve very much doubted Bucky's ability to dig a foxhole in his current condition. Despite his words, Bucky also looked like he didn't intend to be getting up any time soon. The jerk.

Steve said, "Don't be stupid."

"Hmm," Bucky said to the canvas on which his head rested.

The seconds ticked by heavily.

"Hey, Buck, are you okay?" Steve said.

"Right as rain."

"What did Colonel Philips want to talk about?"

"Factory."

By that Steve was sure Bucky meant 'isolation ward.' As much as he didn't want to bring it up, Steve couldn't help himself. He wanted to know what had happened to Bucky. He _had_ to know, had to make it right. Steve knew that Bucky wouldn't want to talk about it, but they didn't keep secrets from one another. Hell, the two of them had slept in the same bed during those cold winters in Brooklyn when the damned radiator would stop working (again).

So Steve only felt a little bit intrusive when he said, "Tell me what happened."

Bucky closed his eyes.

"Please, Buck. Talk to me."

"Can't you just read the report I gave to the colonel?"

"I can. But I want _you_ to talk to me."

A pregnant pause settled between them, neither willing to bend to the other's stubborn will. It lasted so long and Bucky had gone so still that Steve thought that the sergeant had gone back to sleep. (It would be just like him.) But then Bucky said "Look, Steve—" at the same time that Steve started to say "At least—"

The both stopped speaking to let the other continue. Steve gestured to Bucky to tell him to go first.

"I know what you must be thinking," he said, "but I really don't want to talk about it right now. I already had to talk about all that shit with the colonel, and before that, I was still _living_ it. It's just . . . I'm so tired, Steve. Not tonight. Some other time. Just not now." His eyes closed again.

Steve closed his mouth, which was already opened and ready to protest at Bucky's first words. He considered what Bucky had just said. Steve knew it was unfair of him to press Bucky the way he was. But didn't he see that Steve was different now? Whatever had happened to Bucky back there could be fixed now—and if not fixed, then avenged. _Steve_ could solve it, could stand up for him. For the first time in the history of their friendship, it was _Steve_ who had the chance to do something for Bucky. It was _Steve _that could deal retribution to those who had hurt _Bucky_. Things were different now, were _better_. With their roles now reversed, or at the very least out of whack, Steve felt a little dizzy and excited. A voice in the back of Steve's head shouted at him; shamed him for finding happiness in the current state of his best friend.

He didn't know how to quiet the confusion or reconcile the emotions waging war within him, so Steve said, "Tell me one thing?"

Bucky didn't give a definitive answer, but grunted in the way that Steve knew meant that he would at least hear the question.

"Did they torture you?" It was a question that Steve was relatively sure he knew the answer to, but he was not willing to believe it until Bucky himself confirmed it for him.

Instead of speaking, Bucky pulled the sleeve of his sweater up until it bunched up around his bicep. Even amid the motley of unnaturally colored flesh (because of dirt, assorted grime, and bruises) of his arm, the track marks were clear as day. There were _so many_ of them. _This _was being done to his best friend while Steve was touring around selling war bonds, acting like a dancing monkey, and lifting motorcycles full of girls. Steve took a hold of the displayed arm so Bucky couldn't retract it before Steve had seen his fill. His enhanced heart banged on his enhanced sternum as his enhanced eyes stared at Bucky's completely human arm.

"Cold," Bucky said, the sound muffled by the canvas his face was pressed into. Steve let go of his arm when he felt it being withdrawn. Bucky pulled the sleeve back down and tucked it under the pup tent that was serving as his blanket.

"The docs have seen that?" Steve said.

"Mhm."

"You can take the cot, Buck."

"All set here."

Another heavy silence.

"You guys will be up to your eyeballs in rest and recuperation," Steve said mostly to himself.

"Don't be such a tease, pal," Bucky said. "That's _days_ away."

Bucky went back to sleep rather quickly after that. Steve didn't. He was quite sure that he didn't sleep a wink. He couldn't—not when his brain was so loud inside his skull.

As much as Steve liked being able to defend himself—liked being _strong_—he had to admit that he felt very uncomfortable being the supporter instead of the one in need of support. It was all Steve had ever wanted, a chance to prove that he was just like any other man, just as tough. He was glad for the serum, glad for the doors and opportunities it afforded him that he had been hoping for all his life. But sitting there now with his best friend having just escaped a POW camp, Steve realized that he had no idea what he had been wishing for. It was always Bucky taking care of him before. Steve had always said that he would return the favor one day. He realized that he didn't even know how to begin to do so.

Bucky always knew just what to do for Steve and exactly when to do it. Steve couldn't imagine how his friend could have known. It was all so foreign to Steve. He _wanted _to take care of Bucky. He just didn't know _how_. There was a bitterness in the back of Steve's throat when he thought that he had traded one form of inadequacy for another. Some part of Steve irrationally screamed that Bucky had been reduced to what he was because Steve had stolen all the health—as if the two of them shared a single source of wellness and Steve had just stolen all of it, leaving his friend to shrivel and die.

It ended up taking a few days before all the men were boarded up on a ship and headed for England. In that time, Steve went and read the report Bucky had made to Colonel Philips. His stomach swooped when he read it and he told himself it was because of the sway of the ship in the sea. _Experimented on_. Steve had suspected it, but it was another monster to see it in writing. To see it as absolute truth. All of a sudden, he felt as if he was traveling in the wrong direction. Steve wanted to turn the ship around and head back into battle. He wanted to hunt down every last HYDRA base and show them just what he thought of them treating people like lab specimens.

It only got worse the more Steve read. The HYDRA man with the red skull—Johann Schmidt, the file named him—had been trying to recreate the serum that had made Steve what he was. Is that what they had been trying to do? In the report, Bucky had said that all the other prisoners that he saw in the ward had died. Steve remembered screaming and how much his own transformation had _hurt_. God, is that what Bucky felt?

Something told Steve that it was probably worse.

The failure of his first mission felt even bigger. As he lay in his bunk that night on the ship, his mind wouldn't quiet down. Again. Perhaps there was a reason why Bucky had been so wary, almost afraid of Steve's new frame. Bucky tried to hide it, but Steve could always see the disapproval in his eyes. Bucky had wanted Steve to stay in Brooklyn and work in a damn factory or collect scrap metal. Steve's safety and health had always been one of Bucky's highest priorities. (Steve had never asked for that!) And Steve had repaid Bucky for that protection by having an experimental procedure done that could have killed him, made him insane, or worse. What Bucky must think about Steve willingly getting roped into some science experiment that made him not only eligible for enlistment but an _ideal _applicant. What Bucky must think of Steve having willing done what was brutally forced on him.

_Hypocrite_, his mind said loudly. Steve stared at the bottom on the bunk above him and thought the word again. _Hypocrite_.

He was upset that someone had experimented on Bucky when he had had a procedure done to him that was meant to accomplish the exact same thing. Steve said that Bucky shouldn't be upset about Operation: Rebirth. When Steve sat there and thought about everything, he realized that it was a lot to ask of the sergeant: _I can be upset that HYDRA tried to make you a super soldier, but you are not allowed to be upset that the good ol' US of A succeeded in doing exactly that to me. _

Memories of the two of them escaping that factory bubbled up in Steve's mind. Bucky had asked questions then. _What happened to you? Did it hurt? Is it permanent?_ It occurred to Steve that Bucky may have been asking those questions to compare the answers to his own experiences. He didn't want to think about what Bucky had been hoping he'd said. Perhaps Bucky had thought Steve was only a hallucination then—Bucky had admitted to having them in the report to Philips. He must have thought that HYDRA had somehow caught and experimented on _Steve_. At least, Bucky must have thought that at first, upon first sight.

Hadn't Steve been a lab rat too? He had submitted to an experiment that had changed him beyond recognition. Only difference was that Steve had done it on purpose. He had given consent. Captain America may have been forced on Steve Rogers, but Operation: Rebirth hadn't. _That_ had been his choice the whole way through. Bucky hadn't been afforded that luxury of consent. Then again, it didn't appear that HYDRA's plan had worked. The only thing Bucky gained from their careful ministrations was insomnia, pallor, and a new serious (_wrong_) disposition.

By the time they docked and got settled near a SSR base in England, there was only one emotion left in Steve. Anger. Regardless of everything else, he was going to get back at HYDRA. Not only for Bucky, but that was obviously a large motivating factor. Steve wanted the death to come to an end. Going back out there would be the quickest way to end the war. He didn't want one more person to suffer as his closest, dearest friend had. The night that Peggy had debriefed Bucky on what he knew about the factory and all of HYDRA's operations, the sergeant had stuck close to Steve's side and muttered his name, rank, and serial number under his breath as if he feared forgetting them. (Unlikely, given how often he seemed to be doing it.) Steve had used his (made up) influence to get a room big enough for him to share with Bucky. He was still worried about what his idle mind might drive him to do. Also, keeping Bucky close seemed to put something in the back of Steve's mind at peace.

It didn't come as a surprise when Colonel Philips offered him the chance to wipe HYDRA off the map. Steve accepted it readily. Hell, he had anticipated it. There was already a roster of possible soldiers he could have on his team. Steve had decided he needed a small team already. There was no stealth in numbers, so he need the best of what was available. He had asked Bucky about the men; about which men he thought would be good for a unit that would be of small size. Besides honestly wanting Bucky's input, Steve asked him to give the sergeant something to focus on.

Bucky wrote up a list of names for Steve. Not until he saw that list did Steve realize how badly he wanted Bucky to be among the men following him into hell. It was a lot to ask. Too much to ask. Steve felt sick with guilt for even thinking it. He must be the worst friend. Bucky had barely made it out of there alive—he certainly wasn't hale and whole right now and probably never would be—and Steve wanted him to go back. Steve wanted Bucky to come with him and go toe-to-toe with the very people that used him as a human pincushion.

Like a horrible, selfish person, Steve couldn't stop himself from asking Bucky to join him.

Worse, a few days later, Bucky agreed to do it.

* * *

**Note:**

**I didn't mean to post a second part to this, but I had all of these leftover words and didn't want them to go to waste. **

**There's has been an idea fermenting in my head about giving the missions the Howling Commandos went on the full TLC they deserve. Let's face it, that montage of the Commandos in _CA: TFA_ was the most interesting part of the whole damn film. The heroic deeds that Cap is supposedly most famous for were summed up in twenty seconds. Pfft. I wish someone would do those adventures justice. **

**Anyway, thanks for reading!**


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